creepypastafandomcom-20200222-history
Euphoria
I would say that I began using this new drug four months ago. I'll call it Euphoria so I don't have to refer to it as 'this drug' over and over again. Believe it or not, it has very few side effects, which is nice. The only major downside is that within half an hour of my dealer giving me Euphoria, I begin to feel nauseous. It gets so bad, I end up hunched over my bed, clutching a pot to vomit into. Despite this, the joy I feel from taking Euphoria is incredible. It's impossible to describe unless you're a Euphoria user yourself. Of course, I only started using it once I got sentenced to serve time in prison. Upon my arrival in prison, I found that there were other Euphoria users out there. Some of them were younger, some were older. Most of them, however, were my age. A lot of the users were taking the same amount of Euphoria that I was, but some also took an even higher dosage. The amount of Euphoria they took wasn't enough, so they needed more to satisfy their urge. My biggest concern once I started taking Euphoria was the risk of withdrawals. Most of the older people in prison had gone through withdrawals more than once, so they needed to go back on it. That would keep their withdrawals at bay, even if it was just for a little while. It wasn't particularly unusual for someone to die every so often, despite the fact that Euphoria helped them get better. How could that be? I would wonder. Euphoria is such a wonderful thing, it shouldn't be killing people. It has to be something else, not Euphoria that's killing them. Yes, that must be it! One of my best friends here in prison is a girl that I will just call Kira. She's a little younger than I am and like me, she had been using Euphoria for the past four months. One major difference between us is the fact she was missing all forms of body hair. That's right: the hair on her head, her eyebrows, even her eyelashes had fallen out. Looking back, I didn't notice that a lot of the other Euphoria users lacked hair. I suppose that I had been seeing these people for so long, I had forgotten about how they looked. ... My dealer just arrived, right on schedule. He wipes my arm with an alcohol pad before tying a strip of rubber around my arm. I smile as he flicks the needle to free any air bubbles, then feels my arm to find a suitable vein. As the needle goes into my arm and the Euphoria begins to enter my body, I begin to feel at ease. I close my eyes and think about how lucky I was to discover this drug. Oh God, I'm feeling sick again. I looked at the clock to see that five hours had passed as I began to empty the contents of my stomach into a pot at my bedside. By no means am I a drug addict. Even though the same thing happens every time, it's too addicting to stop. I need Euphoria in order to function as a normal person. The other Euphoria users know what I'm talking about. If I need to, they can back me up on that. Even the prison doctor believes in the curative power of Euphoria. That's how I know that this is a miracle drug. I mean, what other doctor would encourage someone to use a drug? Once I had stopped vomiting, I call the prison doctor to grab the pot to clean. As he took the pot away, I lay down and hope to get a little sleep. As my eyes shut again, I think to myself: I hate chemotherapy, but I'm pretty sure that I hate being pretty much confined to this hospital a lot more. Category:Reality